Glass
by Tai-taiAd1
Summary: My first actual fanfiction. It's slash. Rogue/?? Pick your own character. I meant for it to be rogue and jean but whatever. Review it and I promise I won't scream...


Disclaimer: right, yeah, no. Duh.  
  
Rogue:  
  
He held me like I was meant to break. Shatter to a million pieces.  
  
When the Professor found out how to temporarily cure me, he didn't move too fast. He took his time, afraid I might get hurt. From a brush of the fingers, to a handhold, to a kiss. It took a week.  
  
She was different. She didn't need the professors cure. She moved like tomorrow was coming too soon. I loved it. Her crafty hands, her strong arms, her soft lips. I've waited all my life to touch, to feel someone else's skin beneath mine and not have to worry about hurting them. He didn't understand what I wanted...needed. I needed to feel the intensity, the heat. And I needed to give in to it. She understood. She knew what it was like to be swept. To forget all boundries for a few moments of divine euphoria.  
  
The instant she walked into the room, a tension grew. A stirring that simmered until I thought it was going to boil over. She must have felt it to. After a day of circling each other, watching each other, she approached me. A dim smirk upon her face, eyes so rich with feeling you could barely see the thoughts that hid behind them.  
  
She asked if I was going to the homecoming dance with Bobby. I told her yes. She simply smiled.  
  
The dance was okay, there were lovely streams of thin decorating paper strewn along the ceiling corners. The music was okay, and nobody spiked the punch.  
  
Of course I'm lying.  
  
I got as far as the circle of jocks Bobby associates with, then I politely excused myself to go to the bathroom.  
  
Walking along the dark hallways, annoying bubble-pop music chasing behind me. I turned the corner to the restrooms where I was planning to hide out for most of the night, but something caught my eye. Farther down the hall was the art room and it appeared that someone was there. Piqued with curiosity, I entered. Low and behold, her. She was lying on a table, eyes closed, clad in blue jeans and a grey shirt. Not exactly homecoming drab. Then again, neither was I. It didn't look like she heard me so I moved closer. There was a book on her stomach and I was about to pick it up, but her hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.  
  
"You always know how to pick at me." Her smokey voice was entrancing.  
  
"Well, I try." I gently pulled my wrist out of her grip.  
  
Sliding to a siting position, she was the same height as me. She's actually an inch or two taller. Our faces were a good distance apart, but her stare was still striking. There was no denying that the vibe in the room was certainly palpable.  
  
Slowly she rose her hand to my cheek, but I stopped her before she made contact.  
  
"Don't." I breathed softly, but regardless of what I said she touched me anyway.  
  
Electricity. Fire. Adrenaline.  
  
She caressed me as if she were Pygmalion outlining Galetea's face. Running the pad of her thumb over my lips, then moving her fingers back to tuck some of my hair behind my ear. I shut my eyes, feeling a purr let out at the back of my throat. Sweet release.  
  
How can she be doing this? How is this happening?  
  
It doesn't matter anymore.  
  
It doesn't matter because the fire is spreading and her soft touch has slipped into wandering, moving down my face to my neck and shoulders. Blood surges through every vein. She moves forward and kisses me. Not slow and caressing, but passionately. And I am more than willing to return it. A skillful tongue slithering past my lips as I move into her, wrapping my arms around her waist. Behind her back I pull off my gloves and she sneaks her hands up my sweater and over my stomach. My breathing is hitched and I am overcome with emotions I was only able to revel in in my dreams. Soft lips move from mouth to cheek to neck. I can feel her nipping against my pulse and I really want to get this shirt off of her.  
  
Lost in a dripping pool of moans our hands roam and for the first time I don't feel like I'm being cradled.  
  
Oh, what would Bobby say if he walked in right now? His girlfriend making out with a girl, on homecoming night, in school, on an art table.  
  
Her lips aren't like his. They're not rough, they don't peck lightly and they definetly know what they're doing.  
  
Her hands aren't like his. They don't take a week to hold my hand, they don't wrap lightly around my hips, but pull me in as if I were to melt into her.  
  
Her eyes aren't like his. They don't beam a soft halo-like light whenever they look at me, they don't whisper the words 'be gentle.' They flutter open with every gasp and shut with every hiss, and they look directly into mine and scream lust.  
  
She is nothing like him. She holds me like a fire-winged faerie, ready to fly away. And she doesn't take her time. 


End file.
